


Day #12: Chocolate

by imaginationandheartbreak (alexgrey)



Series: 30 Days of Writing for Ships: Mattex [10]
Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: 30 days of writing for ships, F/M, Mattex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:38:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1834771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexgrey/pseuds/imaginationandheartbreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex closes her eyes and smoothes her hands down the sides of her top, feeling the press of the folded paper she’s tucked into the band of her skirt.  Intimate. Every second that passes, every second she can’t race down the stairs and out that front door to find Matt feels like the unraveling an already unsteady possibility. She thinks of him writing that poem – how long had it taken? Had he any idea what it would do to her, she wonders, cunt already pulsing as images from his poetry – his fantasies? How long, Matt? – run through her head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day #12: Chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> This follows up on Day #11: Goosebumps

The rest of the evening is a blur of congratulations and smiling and major Amory donors and nursing a single glass of wine and avoiding having her photograph taken with Robert against that rich wood paneling and this drunk girl – then, improbably, another one! - professing undying love ( _improbably? Well… no… she admitted, with a hint of interior smile)._ Three in one night, she thought, and it would be funny if she could truly stop to relish the feel of being desired – why not? Opening night, champagne for everyone, why else had she become an actor? - instead of this thudding dread.

Alex closes her eyes and smoothes her hands down the sides of her top, feeling the press of the folded paper she’s tucked into the band of her skirt.  Intimate. Every second that passes, every second she can’t race down the stairs and out that front door to find Matt feels like the unraveling an already unsteady possibility. She thinks of him writing that poem – how long had it taken? Had he any idea what it would do to her, she wonders, cunt already pulsing as images from his poetry – his fantasies? _How long, Matt?_ – run through her head.

What did she want? HIM her heart screamed, cunt already aching from wanting him inside her. But she was too old to be playing fucking Cinderella.  Can’t race for the stairs.  Opening night, Matt. You daft man. Beautiful, beautiful, awkward idiot.  

She can’t leave.  But what would he be thinking now?  It is ridiculous, she mutters to the ground, that she doesn’t have a handbag or even pockets for her mobile. Stylists. Alex retreats to the bathroom, borrowing her assistant Sophia’s phone, and dials Matt’s number by heart right there in the stall, her fingers flying over the keys, his number like a locker combination from gradeschool, long-forgotten but utterly present somewhere important in memory, hands shaking.  It just rings and rings – not even his voicemail.  Shit. Where are you Matt?

As badly as she wants to hear his voice and say something – _what?_ – a text would have to do. What on earth could she say to match what he’d given her? She allows herself just one more second to untuck the poem and cast a furtive glance over the text – “ _inside you as I write this_ / _feel you reading me/_ _Feel me fucking you_ ” The possibility of it burning into her flesh. When did he get to be so dirty?  When did she get to like it so much from him? Why didn’t it seem at all odd?  Her legs were already opening in welcome, hips rocking gently, thinking of his fingers writing out those words, maybe multiple times, thinking of those fingers on her clit. She checks that the door to the stall is truly locked and risks a hand under her skirt, risks touching herself, but fearful she might not be able to stop once she starts and amazed to realize that she’d already committed parts of the poem to memory “my cock in your cunt/forever” _forever?_ Closing her eyes.  Two fingers inside, imagining they’re his. Shit. Can’t do this here.  But, oh, how she _needs to_ now. And poor Sophia’s phone!  God. She exits the stall quickly, sucking her finger into her mouth _imagining her mouth full of him_ before washing her hands briskly and returning to the screen and project text message. No way she can write line after line of poetry or even prose in response.  She has no time.  No confidence.  She’s so wet. And so empty. She keeps it simple. One word:  YES.

Oh, Matt. If he hadn’t left… Well, if he hadn’t left it would have been a disaster, she allows.  Did she want him to come back and sweep her off her feet? Carry her down that staircase amidst the crowd and the flashbulbs?

No.

It would all have to wait until after midnight.  _Matt_ , her heart called out into the general night, hoping to find him and stroke him, her heart whispering _wait_ into the universe, grabbing his hand in her phantom one. _Just hold on, Matt: I’m coming._

**

Robert’s hand in hers as they exit the Armory feels warm and impossibly heavy. Like gravity. What was she doing? Robert.

Going back the beautiful hotel suite they were sharing together. Lovely, attentive, Robert who even now is telling her how brilliant she is, whispering, again, into her hair how well that had gone, how proud he is, how she was incredible up there and would she want to go anywhere else now?    _Yes_ , she thinks.  No, she says.

His hand tugging her now just a little bit faster as they slip into the waiting car, his thumb rubbing a gentle up-and-down question against her wrist.  Nothing. Was this the same man she’d undressed eagerly even just last night?  Was she that different?  That kind of woman?  Yes.

When they get to their hotel suite Robert weaves a hand through her hair and brings his other hand to Alex’s bare midriff, teasing gently.  He knew better than to exhibit any public expression of affection like this in the street or in the car. Alex had made the ground rules clear and he was helpful and obedient and full of charm and went along with all of them.  _Oh Robert, you dullard_.  Fuck.  And here now are his warm lips, too warm, too loose, too acquiescent.  How on earth could she kiss Robert back properly with that image of Matt Smith’s cock in her ass? It didn’t help that Robert was still cradling the roses Matt had given her.

“Oh, Alex, love – you look exhausted.” Robert was nothing if not utterly sensitive. She didn’t deserve him.  _I don’t deserve this._  “Looks like you still need to unwind.” He gives her a sly smile.

“Maybe.”

“Glass of wine, love?”

“No.” God, no – glass of wine could end up three glasses of wine. She needed to keep her head about her. “I just need to check my messages.”   Robert chuckles, finds her phone on the table and passes it to her.

“Checking your reviews already, Lady Macbeth?”

She unlocks the screen, praying there will be a text from Matt.  Nothing. Shit.  Her heart in freefall: an elevator cable has been cut and she can’t breathe and she forces her feet toward the bedroom to change. She’d been so certain there would be a message waiting, if not Matt himself.  Unlikely, but not impossible _the things he’d written, after all_ … Should she try again? Her YES had been unequivocal. Maybe he’d thought better of the whole thing.  Maybe he’d fled because the reality of being with her in the flesh rather than in a poem had been all too much.  She held the phone in her hand as she changed out of her clothes and slipped on a robe, kept it in her pocket, next to the poem itself, as she brushed her teeth.  Felt for it and willed it to bring news. Nothing. Shit.  She kills more time, going over the poem in her head, feeling her heart for bruises, as she hears Robert pop a bottle of Veuve in the kitchen. 

*

A full 30 minutes pass before she realizes in amused relief and horror that she’d called and texted Matt from a number that he wouldn’t even recognize.  Sophia’s phone. Shit. _Fuck_. What on earth would Matt make of that ‘yes’?  She hadn’t even typed her name! Ok, then. Second try.  Her heart pounds with the realization that for Matt is has been hours and as far as he’s concerned she hasn’t even tried to contact him. She wants to hold him.  She needs to do better than a single word.

“Alex, love, just come for a wee toast. Don’t make me finish this entire bottle myself!” Robert calls from the kitchen area in a loud, hopeful, happy, voice.  Shit. No calling then – not tonight.

Alex’s head is bold and surprisingly clear as she hammers out another text: _That was my yes, Matt. Your hand on my clit, screaming all the words. Your poem is everything I am afraid to need. Want you so much. So Yes. Let me show you how I need. What I want. Waiting for you. Btw - it’s Alex._

She hits ‘send’ feeling lightheaded, lighthearted, afraid and absolutely certain.  She feels like she’s floating as she opens the door and makes her way toward the champagne bucket and Robert, now making his way over to her, freshly poured flute in one outstretched hand, a gilded plate with dark chocolate squares in the other and she takes the champagne, avoiding his fingers.  This part is bad – the Robert part.

She looks on fire, Robert thinks, full of awe and approval.

“Oh, Baby – whatever you want – my perfect, perfect baby…” he coos close to her cheek. He punctuates the words with kisses and a proprietary ruffle of her curls: “sex or chocolate baby?” 

She turns to him, so grateful for the out: “chocolate.”


End file.
